


Eyes Open

by semperama



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/pseuds/semperama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach decides they aren't leaving the restaurant until Chris comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Open

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trekbedtimestories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekbedtimestories/gifts).



> I wrote this in response to a prompt (A SUPER HOT PROMPT) from trekbedtimestories on tumblr.

Chris almost spits out his mouthful of wine. “I’m sorry, what?”

Zach stares him down from across the table, then scoops the last forkful of creme brulee into his mouth, clearly indicating that he doesn’t want to discuss it. But Chris fucking does want to discuss it, because this thing Zach wants him to do has a name, and that name is Public Indecency.

“I can’t do that, Zach,” he says, leaning forward across the table and hissing through clenched teeth. “We’ll get kicked out. The press will have a field day.”

Zach lifts an eyebrow at him, and one corner of his mouth creeps upward in tandem. “Well, I guess you had better be discreet then.”

“I’m not doing it,” Chris says. He just barely manages to resist the urge to cross his arms over his chest like a contrary child. 

“Christopher,” Zach says. His voice is sharp, and it slides cleanly through Chris’s guts, reaching into the soft, vulnerable parts of him. “I think you misunderstood. I wasn’t asking you. We aren’t leaving here until you do as I told you.”

Chris very nearly safewords right then and there out of defiance. The pissy little brat inside of him is always fighting for control—it’s what makes him struggle against bonds he asked for in the first place, what makes him spit in Zach’s face just so he’ll hit him harder. But the best thing about it is that Zach fights back, and ultimately Zach usually wins. And as scary as it is, Chris loves that feeling. Anyone could give him what he wants. Zach gives him what he needs.

Which is ultimately why he reaches down and pops open the button of his fly.

“Mmm, good,” Zach murmurs, looking eminently pleased with himself. Chris nearly kicks him under the table. Instead, he channels that energy inward, fueling the fire in his belly and using it to maintain his courage. The waiter has yet to bring the bill, and the couple at the nearest table has glanced their way a few times—often enough that Chris has wondered if they’ve been recognized. But their booth is mostly shrouded in darkness, and the tablecloth is long enough that Chris can slump down in his seat and let it partially cover him. He turns himself a little toward the wall as he eases his zipper down. Zach’s eyes fall to the tabletop like he’s wishing he had the x-ray vision necessary to see through it.

“Don’t know what’s in it for you,” Chris breathes, barely above a whisper. He feels satisfied when Zach leans forward a little bit to hear better. “You can’t even watch.”

“I can watch your face,” Zach says slowly, like Chris is being unbelievably stupid. “And you know that’s not really what it’s about. I can watch you get off any time I want.”

Yes, Chris knows that’s not really what it’s about, but he had to at least try to get a little dig in. Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t talk. There are other ways to get back at Zach anyway. Pulling this off without a hitch would be one of them. He sinks down farther in the booth and spreads his legs wide as he sneaks a hand into his pants. One of his feet bumps Zach’s. He wraps his hand around his half-hard cock and gives himself a few awkward strokes, his movement limited by his snug jeans. 

Zach leans forward a little more, his hands folded in front of him on the table. “You know you aren’t going to be able to get where you need to go unless you take it out,” he purrs. Chris wonders how he knows that he hasn’t. Can he tell just by watching the shifting of Chris’s bicep that he’s trying to work within the confines of his pants? “Get that dick out, Pine. And don’t let anyone see.”

The tablecloth draped across his lap doesn’t make him feel any less exposed, but he does as he’s told anyway, tugging down the waistband of his briefs just enough to pull himself out and biting his lip to keep back a sigh of relief. He doesn’t want to give Zach the satisfaction. Already he’s glad that Zach can’t see how hard he is, how he’s affected by the thrill of obeying an order like this in public. It’s not that he gets off on the fact that people might see—he’s about as far away from an exhibitionist as you can get. It’s the danger of it that makes his cock throb in his hand. It’s that Zach is pushing him right to the limits of what he’s willing to do.

Chris means to put on a show—as much of a show as he can manage without drawing attention, that is—but that plan falls apart pretty quickly. He runs his tongue over his lower lip and then lets his mouth fall open a little, tips his head back just a tad, but it isn’t long before he has to focus more on trying to control himself than trying to wind Zach up. He doesn’t dare take his time, because every second this goes on is another second where he could get caught, but that means it isn’t long before his breathing is picking up and he’s fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. 

Zach reaches across the table, palm up, silently asking for Chris’s free hand. “Don’t forget to be quiet, baby” he says. His thumb strokes the edge of Chris’s palm. It’s a relatively chaste touch, but it feels pornagraphic when Chris’s other hand is on his cock, and he wishes it were _Zach’s_ hand instead, and that they were home in bed. 

“Fuck you,” he says quietly, then glares when Zach chuckles. His thighs are shaking a little with the effort of keeping still, so he stretches one leg out, hooking his foot behind one of Zach’s ankles. Zach raises an eyebrow at him, his smirk widening into a grin.

He’s just opening his mouth to say something—something unbearably snarky, no doubt—when the waitress shows up at their table. 

“How was everything, gentlemen?” she asks cheerfully as she sets the bill on the table. Chris stops moving instantly, squeezing the base of his cock and looking down at the tablecloth. He hopes that the flickering candle isn’t giving off enough light to reveal the flush he can feel creeping across his face. Or if it is, that she’ll chalk it up to the bottle of wine that he and Zach split.

“It was wonderful,” Zach says. Chris doesn’t dare look up at his face. At least, not until Zach’s foot nudges his gently. “Wasn’t it wonderful, Chris?”

 _Fucker._ “Yes. Excellent,” he says, his voice strained. He forces himself to look up and smile, and the waitress smiles back, seemingly none the wiser.

Zach holds up a hand to keep her from walking away just yet and then fishes out his card and hands it to her. She picks the bill back up and tucks the card inside. “I’ll be right back with this.”

“Think you can finish before she comes back?” Zach asks as soon as she’s gone, his tone making it obvious that _he_ does think Chris can. It’s a challenge, Chris knows—it’s just meant to get a rise out of him—but it rubs him the wrong way anyway. He can do anything Zach tells him to. 

He doesn’t answer except to raise his eyebrows at Zach and lick his lips and start moving his hand again. This time, he tries to do it how Zach would do it, if he were the one touching him. He grips himself just shy of too tight, rubs his thumb roughy over the head, squeezes harder on the upstroke. It’s not exactly right, but it’s close. There’s no hairy wrist brushing his thigh, no velvet voice whispering filthy things in his ear. Chris wishes he could close his eyes and imagine it, imagine the way that Zach will sometimes stop fucking him just so he can wring an orgasm out of him with his hand. But he can’t close his eyes. He has to keep staring Zach down across the table, has to remain all too aware of their surroundings.

Zach turns Chris’s other hand over on the tabletop and slides his fingers along his palm, traces the veins in his wrist, his touch feather-light and maddening. When he speaks, his voice is so low that Chris almost can’t hear it. “Are you wet for me, baby? Fuck, I want to taste you.” Chris almost whimpers as he pictures Zach sliding under the table, taking him in his mouth. Zach must be thinking the same thing, because he makes a beckoning gesture with his hand. “Come on, let me.”

It takes Chris’s foggy brain a moment to catch on, but when he does, he’s cursing under his breath and rushing to comply. He swipes his thumb across the head of his cock, gathering as much precome as he can, and then lets go of himself and reaches across the table, offering his hand to Zach’s mouth. Zach grips his wrist and then takes his thumb between his lips. His tongue swipes across Chris’s skin, licking him clean, and he groans, like he’s tasting a delicacy. His eyelids flutter. It’s an act, but it’s a goddamn good one. Chris’s dick twitches, and he bites down hard on his lip to keep back a whine.

Before Zach gives him his hand back, he looks around, obviously making sure the coast is clear and the nearest patrons are minding their own business. Then, he hawks and spits, right into Chris palm. “Go on,” he says, releasing Chris’s wrist. “Come for me.”

Chris can’t get his hand back under the tablecloth fast enough. With Zach’s saliva easing the way, his hand flies over his dick, stroking hard and fast, racing toward the edge. Fuck, he hopes no one is looking now. It would probably be way too obvious what’s going on. His arm is moving too fast, and he’s worrying his lip raw to keep from making any sound, and he’s sunk down way too far on the bench, his thighs shaking under the table with the effort of staying mostly still. 

“Here,” Zach says, tossing one of the cloth napkins at Chris’s chest. “You’re going to need that.”

Chris curses under his breath and snatches it, then shoves it under the tablecloth and positions it to catch the mess he’s about to make. And just in time, too. His body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and abs tightening, his mouth falling open as he struggles to pull in oxygen fast enough. And then he’s coming, a quiet sob escaping as he empties himself into the napkin, his eyes squeezing shut.

When he opens them again, the waitress is standing there again. He almost jumps out of his skin.

“There you are,” she says as she sets down the little black folder. Luckily, she barely even look his way—Zach is helpfully blinding her with one of his most charming smiles. When she does finally turn her pasted-on grin toward him, she doesn’t seem to notice anything strange. “You two have a good night, okay?”

“Yeah, you too,” Chris rasps. 

As soon as she leaves, Zach melts into self-satisfied chuckles. “Jesus,” he says. “That was close.”

Chris winces as he cleans off his hand with the soiled napkin and then tucks himself away, zips his pants back up. “There’s something wrong with you, Quinto.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who just blew my wad in public.”

“Fuck. You.” There’s no real annoyance behind it though. It’s hard to be that irritated when he’s still high on adrenaline and oxytocin—and when Zach’s eyes are still dark with desire and focused on Chris’s mouth. _That_ reminds Chris that he has a little bit of power left after all. Just a little. And he’s going to put it to good use when they get home.

Zach pulls the bill toward him, and Chris watches as he hastily calculates the tip and the scrawls his signature at the bottom. He tucks his card back into his wallet and his wallet back into his pocket, and when he raises his eyebrows at Chris, clearly about to ask him if he’s ready to go, Chris pushes the dirty napkin across the table at him.

“Do something with that.”

Zach’s jaw clenches for a moment as he stares down at it, but when he looks up at Chris again, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. “Good thinking,” he says. “A souvenir.”

He carefully folds the napkin in half, then in quarters, containing the mess inside it, then shoves it into his back pocket. Chris’s face feels hot. Zach smiles sweetly at him. “Ready?” As soon as they stand up, Zach wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Just wait until I get you home.”

The woman at the nearest table is definitely glaring at them as they walk past. Chris decides he doesn’t care.


End file.
